Snow and Stones
by Lilith Encodead
Summary: The cursed souls of Oakvale are trapped within a curios little peace of objet d'art, and only Sparrow and Reaver can free them. But curses are never that simple, are they? Reaver/Sparrow   Fable II, some links to Fable III later on
1. Teeth

_**|Snow and Stones**_

**|Chapter 1,**

**|Teeth**

Bone runes scattered across the table top, rattling into place for the seventh time. The exact same place for the seventh time. Sparrow reclined back into her large armchair, silent.

There was no mistaking it; one of the three subsequent heroes was returning home. Her White-Balverine tooth runes never lied. Sparrow had fashioned them herself when she was younger - although, not much younger, since she was not yet old. Her face and body were far more youthful than her mind. Short, thick dark hair and sparkling eyes darker still, lent her a fairly ordinary appearance. However, beneath her clothes, map-like crisscrossed scars spread across her body, the lightest of strawberry reds.

Now pale-faced and wary, Sparrow had been born a mute and into poverty. As a result of this she had learnt to observe. That was all she had done; observe and accept, forever trying to understand. And of course, no one is going to watch their words - their behaviour - around a little urchin who wasn't going to go blabbing. A little wide-eyed girl who couldn't go blabbing. Her sister had often said, that the day Sparrow spoke would be the day that _the right people _listened to them: "The day you open your mouth little Sparro', I'll make the whole world listen; they'll have ta', you'll see." Rose would reiterate this every time she could see the want to speak deeply engraved on her little sister's face.

Only much later, when she was seventeen, did the words reach her. When she stood at the core of the derelict Guild of Heroes - as she felt the blood of the ancients tuning in to the beat of her pulse - only then could she feel real words warming her lungs. Her own speakable words burning to be said. And, of course, the world did not stop to listen to her, and she didn't want them to. All she wanted was to tell Rose that she was sorry, and for her big sister - her protector - to hear her voice. But she couldn't. Not then, not now, not ever.

So few sounds are loud enough to reach the ears of the dead. Those who lay in their graves sleep too soundly, too deeply, to be reached by the prayers and sorrows of the living. And those with no marked graves, no sealed tomb or resting place, are too busy hopelessly wondering and searching this world for somewhere to rest.

Sparrow had never, and would never, know where her sister's body had been buried; or even if it had been buried. When she was younger of mind -much younger - this uncertainty had filled her eyes with fat and overflowing tears, forever rolling toward her chin. Not once, in nearly ten years had Theresa comforted the little Sparrow. Whenever the blind soothsayer spoke to the child her voice was as if she were reciting another's deeply sentimental message, that meant very little to her; this tone rinsed her words of all the sincerity and empathy she felt for the girl. Over the quiet years in the Gypsy Camp, Sparrow had grown to think that Theresa hated her, and it turn, began to hate the emotionless witch herself.

Whether Theresa liked her or not was immaterial. The day the young Sparrow left the safety of Bower Lake to become a hero, she had no company, no friends, except for her faithful dog. Theresa's opinion meant as little to her as a lonely grain of sand. As a consequence of this, her life was her own to live without any form of parental discipline. Reckless, Sparrow had made some of what she knew to be "_the wrong choices_."

But she would not dwell on that now. Many years had passed since she had heard the uplifting tunes of the gypsies, and swam in the cool waters of Bower Lake. She'd be lying if she said she missed it. Leaning forward, Sparrow took a closer look at her runes once again. Though their predictions could be rather vague, they were never wrong. Few people believed in the magics of the Old Religion in these modern days of guns and new machines. Will-users were often mocked by common folk and skilled tradesmen alike. Magic was thought to be as dead, as the stones of the now empty and crumbling temples of the Old Religion. Outdated children's story's and useless myth. Sparrow strongly disagreed with this.

She was not a strong Will-user at all; small apple sized balls of flame was about the best she could manage. Fun but forgettable party tricks, that couldn't even strike fear into the heart of a rat, weren't something for a infamous hero to boast about. Despite this, the Old Religion was invaluably dear to her for personal reasons. It was rumoured among the people of Albion, that Sparrow was a direct descendant of the old hero of Oakvale; and they were right. Her bloodline could be traced clearly back to his.

The Hero of Oakvale was the stuff of legend. Truly old legends of dragons, giant wasps and Jack of Blades. But he, and everything of his time had come to nothing but fairytales. Hell!; only a handful of people believed that Wraithmarsh had ever been more than a nest of hollow men and empty houses. There were only three people left in the whole of Albion with the purest of heroes' blood in their veins; the truest of connections to Oakvalle: Theresa, Sparrow and, well… The hero who would be returning to Bloodstone that very night.

Surrounding her on every angle was Reaver's decedents, represented by his furnishings, portraits and other personal possessions. Every light in the room had been extinguished hours ago, but within the red and black tiled fireplace burnt a strong and radiating fire. Its orange light jumped back and forth, almost cautiously, like a cat intent on killing a defensive and spiting snake. This caused every shadow in the room to flicker and fidget uncomfortably as they coated the far corners of the room.

It was not long now.

* * *

Brooding thoughts incurred purposeful steps as Reaver made his way up the sloped and cobbled streets of Bloodstone. His trip to Samarkand had been distasteful at best. As much as every cell of his body hated to admit it - Garth had been correct - the master Will-users' homeland had not lived up to Reaver's expectations at all.

How the inhabitants of such an exotic and fruitful country could lead such mundane lives of Will-discipline and meditation was beyond him. There were no gold mines, no foreign clusters of jewels or uninhibited beauties to be exploited. Even the fruits tasted dry and bitter. That excuse of a country was completely barren to him, in more ways than one. And the monkeys; he couldn't bare to think about the monkeys. Nasty little things. Furry, thieving, vulgar little things, that were all too skilled at throwing excrement. Could he be blamed for shooting one of the little buggers? How was he to know they were sacred animals? Surely most sacred animals had a much higher degree of decorum.

Formally, verbally and forcibly banned from Samarkand for all eternity, Reaver had set out on his return voyage with no plunders nor any pleasant memories. In a attempt to shake such unpleasantries from his mind he cast it back to his small chunk of Albion. Bloodstone would await him his open arms. "What rack and ruin had it fallen to without him?" he would wonder fondly. From one port tavern to another he would keep his ears tuned into common conversation; listening in for whispers of his self-made town. And oh! He had heard more than whispers!

Someone - a hero - had taken hold of Bloodstone and every property within it. The hive of pirates, whores and vagabonds now had a new guardian. Swiftly, and seemingly effortlessly, they had stolen everything Reaver once held dear. It was so blatant, so skilful, so unorthodox - Reaver couldn't help admire and hate this individual. How bold they must be; how unique; - how like him.

At first these stories had seemed to be little more than exaggerated rumours, poison laced Chinese whispers. But they soon grew louder and more elaborate; and were presented as fact by people who thought themselves to be the sharpest of minds. According to the underground murmurs, this nameless hero had arrived in Bloodstone with a limitless amount of gold. They appeared to be more than charitable, as they gave hundreds of gold peaces to beggars and concubines completely spontaneously, asking for nothing in return. Before long, the streets were emptied of the homeless, and this hero had moved into the house on the hill; Reaver's beautiful manor house. Not one citizen complained or protested to this. The beggars new houses, and the whores new glittering trinkets, had been more than enough to rinse Bloodstone's shores of every spec of loyalty towards Reaver.

The filthy ingrates! The vile, despicable, insolent cretins! How could they forget him so quickly; so willingly? How malleable and fickle was a mortal brain?

As Reaver drew ever closer back to Albion, stories of this new wealthy- and still unnamed - hero were soon spreading faster than ravenous flames across dried forest, from one corner of the land to the next. Two nights ago - a dreary starless night, with nothing but a infantile new moon to light the sky - Reaver had overheard yet another ludicrous tale of this newfound hero. The story was told by a man thin of hair and body, as a crowd gathered around his rickety tavern table.

His story detailed a rather unpleasant banshee attack on the sinful port-town of Bloodstone. Hooded and faceless, the scarlet banshee set about murdering Albion's foulest delinquents. She fed off their saddest memories and led many to their watery doom; as she embraced many tragic souls into her dead porcelain arms above the docks. Within moments of the monster's arrival the hero was locked in epic battle with the ghoul. The hero, fearless and strong, had fought the banshee skilfully and calmly, without once changing their expression. Victorious, the hero had stood proudly over the monster, as they watched it sinking into the grey and murky waters; cheers and applauding enveloping their ears.

With a bitter taste in his mouth and scornful thoughts heating his mind, Reaver bided his time, and waited for the storyteller to leave the tavern.

In a shadow painted alley alongside the pub he waited, patient as a starving viper; with his hare-skin gloved hands resting on his fine gilded dagger. Drunk and staggering, as if he could feel the world spinning beneath him, the story teller emerged. Before he could make his third step away from the yellow light of the pub, Reaver had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and flung him into the darkened ally. With his forearm pressing down hard beneath the man's collar bones, Reaver pinned him to the brick wall.

"Who is the hero of Bloodstone?" he had sneered so low, he could feel his vocal cords rumbling. "Who is he? Name him!" he had commended of the violently trembling man.

The story teller was an aging man; weak, with tattered clothes and tanned blemished skin, and now nose to nose with a fearsome Reaver. He moved to escape the pirate king's vice-like grip, but when he saw the shining silver dagger digging into his creased neck, he spoke:

"She has no name, sir. A woman. Younger than you'd think." the man stammered and quaked. "With snow white skin and sad dark eyes, and more scars than any man would ever want to count."

The man's pulse was now that of a mouse's, as Reaver eased his grip on him, before growling knowingly:

"Sparrow…"

As the man began to draw in a sigh of relief, Reaver plugged his dagger directly into his heart. The storyteller's eyes bulged almost comically from their sockets, as his head lunged upward stretching the skin on his neck, and strained groans dragged up his throat. Reaver slid the dagger from the man's chest with an unpleasant drawn out squelch, that caused him to wrinkle his nose; before the now soul empty body dropped to the ground, heavy and limp as a cloth bag of bones.

Such people disgusted him. He felt almost cleansed when he disposed of them from this world. Taking a silken handkerchief from his pocket to slickly wipe his dagger clean of the man's blood, Reaver took a moment to ponder the quickest way to reach Bloodstone.

Now, many hours later, he made his way through his showy floral front gardens. _His -_ or soon to be reclaimed anyway. Subconsciously, he cast his mind back to the night at The Spire. The night Sparrow had dragged him unwillingly by his coattails in to the chaos and cacophony that was her business, her life. That one night had certainly been more than enough. Oh, he was certainly accustomed to chaos; he would often seek it, and cause it even more often. But Sparrow's was almost unfathomable. Incomprehensible powers and entities had sought _her_ out. Created _her_ chaos. She had turned the whole of Albion on its head, and in doing so, she had flung Him and… the other two, into the darkest walls of The Spire.

How she managed to return from the dead, and stop the seemingly unstoppable force of Lord Lucien with only a simple music box - all within one evening - would remain a mystery. This was unexpected in itself, but none of the hero trinity had expected Theresa to present Sparrow with yet another choice. What surprised them even more, had been her response, her decision.

Wealth.

She had always acted - always appeared to be - so moral. So upstanding, so pure, sometimes to the point of extreme irritation. But, still yet more unexpected, had been the use she had put her boundless wealth towards. Any self-respecting hero would have surely bought Castle Fairfax, or a sizeable chunk of Bowerstone. But no. She had chosen _his_ town. The cobbled coastal shore of thieves and whores, he had worked so tirelessly to shape and craft as his own.

The girl was strange; that was one word for her.

Unique, rare, wayward?

Yes.

Attractive…?

He hadn't decided yet. But strange, most definitely suited her.

Reaver stood, straight and upright as a sundial, before the arched wooden door. _His _wooden door. He tried the heavy brass handle, fully expecting it to be locked. However, to his surprise, the door opened easily - almost welcomingly. Though he was glad he wouldn't have to endeavour to pick the lock of his own house, suspicious apprehension lingered at the very back of his mind. Regardless of this, he strode in.

Closing the door softly behind him (as thieves do) Reaver shut out the cold and salty night air before examining his old hallway. Nothing seemed to have changed within the house he had become so accustomed to. The fine panelled walls remained polished and maintained their wealthy, imposing and unfriendly presence, that easily made any peasant feel inept. The extravagant gold leaf painted furniture remained in its proper place; and the grand chandeliers hung perfectly from the ceiling, bedight with glaringly bright dangling crystals. Everything was intact, untouched, with an almost lonely emptiness. Confidently, but warily, he approached the main room of the house, beyond a small arched corridor. Once again, the door was unlocked. Slowly, Reaver wrapped his fingers around the door handle and readied his pistol with his free hand.

The door eased open to reveal a curious little scene. Absolutely nothing had been moved in the room whatsoever - but it was not how he had left it. Not an ornament had been touched nor had any picture been moved askew. However, numerous scraps of paper littered the floor, tabletops and sideboards; depicting near indecipherable slanted calligraphy and complex diagrams of the Old Religion. Bumpy clusters of burnt out candles were stuck in every available space, having dirtied his wonderful furniture with their now frozen dripping wax. Up against the crackling fireplace was the most peculiar looking mace; seemingly made from discarded industrial poles and cogs, found on the seashores of Albion, rusted a repulsive orange. It was as if she had moved on top of the room, as an extra layer, instead of moving in to it.

A plush red arm chair had been drawn up to a table at the centre of the room, upon which some bone runes had been scattered. Within the chair was a sleeping figure. Reaver instantly knew it to be Sparrow and swiftly aimed his gun at her head - but did not fire it.

Any common citizen may have been forgiven for mistaking her to be a young man. Dressed in a long, grey, men's army style coat, with a battered, sun bleached ivy green hat dipped over her eyes; she appeared to be sleeping soundly. Her feet rested atop the table in the most unladylike of fashions, as her hands clasped a pistol that lay on her lap.

Lowering his gun ever so slightly Reaver examined her, for what was - he swore to himself - the shortest of moments.

"Who takes up residence on top of a manor house, as apposed to moving inside it?" he thought silently to himself. "What a perplexing - _strange_ girl."

Her skin shone out apart from the shadows; pale and bright as the moonlight shining on a still midnight pond; such a ghostly white. She lay so, so still, as if an unshakeable inertia had been cast upon her; as if she were already dead.

Though his aim was perfect, a cold and most unpleasant sensation of mercy eked its way up Reaver's stomach, creeping round his insides. It was almost as if he felt an _unwillingness_ to kill her. For another short, short moment he pondered why this might be. It wasn't because she was asleep; though killing people in their sleep was underhand and immoral, he had absolutely no qualms with doing this. Was it because she was a woman? It couldn't be, he'd killed so many men and women on his way to this room, and felt no guilt about _them_.

"Stop being such a dithering fool and shoot the thieving cow!" he mentally ordered himself, before grimacing at his momentary merciful misconduct. Smirking slightly at his foolishness, he straightened his arm and pulled the trigger.

No sooner had his gloved finger twitched on the trigger, did Sparrow's head snap upward and her eyes fly open. With the gunshot's sound still spreading to all four corners of the room, Reaver stood statuesque and awestruck. His pupils set fixed on the bullet he had just fired, which was now clamped firmly between Sparrow's teeth.

Snatching her advantage quickly, she cocked her gun and aimed it in less than a heartbeat. She had him trapped. Slowly, she reached into her mouth and retrieved the bullet.

"A stray cat seems to have wondered in." she spoke as if she were talking to an onlooker, but there were none. Between her forefinger and thumb, she rolled the bullet steadily as she spoke. "Were my dog still alive, he'd have crushed your neck to splinters by now."

"Don't you underestimate tomcats my dear." Reaver replied smoothly, holding his aim firm. "I've seen many a ship cat carrying an _ex-_sparrow in his jaws."

Both sustained their glairs for a long moment before begrudgingly lowering their pistols. Using her basic Will-skills, Sparrow lit the flames of the lamps by simply gesturing her hand. As the room was illuminated so was Reaver's form, showing the disappointment and distaste that shaped his features.

For someone who had just completed a lengthy sea voyage, he looked remarkably well groomed. With smooth shaven skin and pricey red and cream garments of many silken and flimsy layers; you'd never know he'd only recently left the company of pirates (who were famed more for their debauchery than their personal hygiene). His posture was so straight it was pompous. The way he threw his chest forward - as the Bloodstone whores do - made him seem notably feminine. Though his windswept hair was clearly greying, his features were ever so slightly more youthful than before. For any other man, this would be impossible. But not him. Sparrow wondered; how many had he sacrificed since they had last parted?

"Why are you here?" she asked, with very little curiosity in her voice.

"To take back what is rightfully mine, why else?" he replied as if the conversation were beneath him. As he returned his gun to its holster he looked almost instantly more relaxed.

Sparrow mimicked him, putting her pistol away, with a slightly sad expression; seemingly disappointed with Reaver's answer.

"You did abandon it." she said mildly, whilst withdrawing a half bottle of "Djin Gin" from the drinks cabernet and pouring two stingily small glasses. "Had I not been here, there'd not be a solitary soul left on your "Costal Paradise.""

"Be that as it may," he said in a disregarding tone, not taking his seat nor his drink. "It is still _my_ Costal Paradise, and you had no right just slipping into it when you thought my attentions were diverted away." a slight snarl on his face gave his words a sharper edge, as if he were scolding a child. "Did you really think you could just take it from me? Did you really think I would not return?"

"Don't insult me." she cut in, her words were sharper than his. She took her seat again in the armchair, her legs crossed in the most impish of fashions. "Of course I anticipated your return."

"Well, I can't blame you and your fortune-telling friend for chatting about me. I am-" he spoke arrogantly, before Sparrow interrupted him again:

"Ha!" she scoffed. "Resa hates me. That witch would never tell me anything."

Reaver took a moment to look distrustfully at his drink, as he felt a rather important query rise to the surface of his mind:

"If you knew of my imminent return -" he posed as distrust strengthened in his voice with every breath. "- most likely to kill you - why did you not strengthen your defences, flee, or ready an attack? I'd have thought you more intelligent that this."

Sparrow did not answer him, but drained her glass, and in turn, downed his in one gulp. As her head flopped forward, as if from weariness, her gaze abruptly fixed on his.

"I need your help." she said honestly and plainly.

"Oh no, no, no, no. I inexplicitly decline. A hundred times I decline." he said light-heartedly, but defiantly. "Last time I was dragged into your "business," I ended up trapped in the Spire, having my life-force drained - in great pain, I might add - to make an all powerful weapon. And I do not wish to re-enter those events any time soon."

"This is different." she insisted without tone, her gaze unnervingly fixed and unmoving.

"You are involved my dear Sparrow, how could it be different?" he replied in a superior tone.

"It has nothing to do with Lord Lucien, nor the people of this age-"

"This is getting rather tiresome." he interrupted, disregarding everything she said. "I think it's time you left this house."

He gestured condescendingly towards the door; but Sparrow remained where she was, her expression and gaze unchanging in an almost determined fashion.

"Come on. Pip-pip!" he prompted.

"You can't just shake this off!" she shouted, anger and impatience rising in her voice.

"I think you'll find I can." he replied dismissively, as he grabbed hold of her arm and hoisted her from the chair.

"There is nothing to discuss, nothing to shake off;" he continued calmly as he dragged a kicking and writhing Sparrow towards the door. "_Bonne chance_."

"You have a responsibility to those people!" she screamed - almost roared - as she shoved him off of her. "You murdered them!; _my_ ancestors! Your neighbours, your family!"

On these words, both of them drew their guns, all niceties forgotten.

"So you read my diary? How intrusive of you." he huffed, unable and unwilling to mimic a civil tone.

"Yes, I did." she replied, her voice was not malicious, but more persuasive, almost pleading. "And I know the guilt you feel and what it does to your dreams. Please, help me. We must save them."

"From what?" he snarled. "Their bodies have crumbled and their ashes are drowning in Wraithmarsh!"

"That was only their bodies; their flesh." she put her gun arm up in the air as a form of surrender as she reached into her coat pocket. "But their souls are trapped, in this..."

From her pocket she withdrew a strange object; A snowglobe. Reaver's aim remained straight and pinned on Sparrow's heart - she felt its unease at the persistant glair of the barrel.

"I hear them sometimes," she said softly as she stretched her arm out towards him, holding the gloomy little ornament in his line of vision. "They call out to me, and for you - constantly. They're trapped and cursed. This is a cursed snowglobe."

Reaver recoiled slightly. This girl was worse than strange, she was mad. But still, the object was rather alluring; and it's dark little houses so familiar. However, he would not let his eyes nor mind dwell on the little bit of tat for too long.

"You are wrong, and deluded." he insisted, his aim straight. "It is I who is cursed."

Sparrow exhaled slowly, as if she where unwilling to admit something, and drew the snowglobe back to her chest.

"I had hoped… your better nature would disclose itself." her eyes grew colder as they set upon him once again. "How foolish of me. I shan't expect it of you again."

And with that she shot her pistol in the air with a skull splitting bang. Every light in the room was extinguished apart from the still burning flames of the fireplace. In the moment of confusion, Sparrow lunged forward and wrestled Reaver to the floor. Gripping a struggling Reaver's shooting hand in her own, Sparrow held him down. In the flickering firelight, she could see his handsome features twist with rage, until he looked truly ugly.

"Get off of me you wench!" he ordered, all decorum had gone, as his eyes looked murderous.

Instead of retorting, she smiled and slowly turned her head anticlockwise; in the most manic looking of ways, she shook the snow globe in his face, almost teasingly.

Suddenly, white specks began to swarm around them. More and more appeared thinker and thicker. They spun in a circular hurricane or whirlpool movement. They were clear now. Plain, fat snowflakes. Before Reaver could question what was happening, a bright white light had obscured he and Sparrow.

They had been engulfed in a bright white nothingness.

* * *

**A/N My computer claims that "snowglobe" isn't a word; I refute this.**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that my Sparrow didn't annoy you ^^; I'm slightly miffed that I'm placing yet another story in the Fantasy/Romance section. I do so much more I swear! Maybe I can put this in the Adventure/ Romance section… or - god forbid - the Fantasy/ Adventure section!**

**This will only be about 5-7 chapters long when it's done, so it won't go on forever like most of my fics. **

**My sincerest apologies if there were any irksome mistakes with grammar, spelling and so on. It's only me, my dyslectic brain (I know that's no excuse) and a **_**really bad **_**word processor working on this.**

**REVIEW PLEASE ^-^ ~! I do so love them. **


	2. Dry

_**|Snow and Stones**_

**|Chapter 2**

**|Dry**

The all-obscuring bright light dimmed and diminished, as the lightest shadows filled in the blank space of this new world. Slim shadows outlined its contents, spreading like ink across a wet page. This world felt empty - eerily so - and hollow as a pessimist's glass. This was Oakvale, but not as anyone would remember it. The small quaint houses stood where they had always resided in humble tranquillity; While the venerable golden oak trees and prosperous crop fields where drained, colourless. The once sun-blessed town was now reduced to the dullest of monochrome whites and greys. The entire colour - all the life and happiness - had been bled dry from the world; with its flesh gone, only its bare white skeleton remained.

At this world's corner, sprawled over an inactive Cullis Gate, were Sparrow and Reaver. The hero was still atop the furious pirate king, who looked ready to overflow with rage. However, Sparrow's attentions were diverted slightly by her empty hands. She was no longer holding the snowglobe.

"I thought so…," she whispered as if confirming something to an invisible audience.

Nevertheless, before she could re-order anything in her over cluttered mind, Reaver gripped the lapels of her coat and forced her to the floor, in one swift rolling movement. Above her, his maddened expression and heaving breast was a more frightful sight than the pistol being pressed - hard - into her temple.

"Where are we, witch?" he demanded, with tight angry features masking his face.

It was a very good question; one that Sparrow knew the most nonsensical answer to. Heavily pinned down like a boxed taxidermy insect, she inhaled deeply.

"We're in the snowglobe." she grumbled, knowing he would not be satisfied.

"Lies!" he snarled, his voice rumbling. "Where are we?" he repeated impatiently, as he twisted the barrel of his gun down viciously on her forehead, causing her to grimace.

"This is Oakvale-" she began steadily.

"Ah! Now, you're contradicting yourself Mon petit Sparrow." he interrupted in a teasingly smug tone. "We are either in that silly little snowglobe or in Wraithmarsh, which is it?"

Sparrow scowled up at him, fearlessly. Even know, whilst residing at its fringes, he would not call his hometown by its proper name.

"I'm not going to play your stupid little game." she sneered slowly. "If you want answers - look around."

Reaver did not move. He did not speak. Then, ungraciously he eased his grip, before giving his pistol one last shove into her head. Her fontanelle was knocked back into the stone Cullis Gate, as the force reverberated through her skull. With an aching head and blurred vision, Sparrow watched him rise up and survey his surroundings.

Reaver examined the hauntingly empty area briefly, before looking straight back at Sparrow, as if averting his eyes from something disgustingly gory. Around the two of them were the smashed remains of once mighty stone ruins covered in ivy and surrounded by dandelion weeds. Jagged lumps of stone nested the Cullis Gate, depicting faded carvings of the Old Religion bleached by sun and faded with time. A standalone rock archway stood crumbling in front of them; beyond which was a chalky white path leading down to the town.

Every water, every cell, of Reaver's body could sense a foreboding danger through the archway, down the dusty path, and back to his past.

"This is a trick." he insisted. "An elaborate deception fabricated by a vindictive Will-user."

Sparrow remained sat on the Cullis Gate, knowing that Reaver would knock her down again if she gave another dissatisfactory answer.

"Its not." she said simply, as if talking to a child that should know better. "You know it's not."

"How can you be so certain?" he asked imperatively, a new distrust growing in his eyes.

"I just know." she replied, her guard getting a little stronger with each word. However, as she saw Reaver's expression sharpen, and his hand stiffen on his gun, Sparrow knew that she would have to elaborate.

"Garth is the only Will-user of this age powerful enough to create false worlds, and this wasn't him." she informed him as fully as she was willing to. "He has no reason to recreate Oakvale."

Reaver's eyes narrowed as he scanned her words for dishonesty, but reluctantly concluded that she was telling the truth.

"Regardless of what this world is, and who its creator might be, we must find a way to escape it." he said purposefully waving his gun in the air and pacing. He did not let his eyes set on the hero for too long; the very sight of her irked him. It was like having his severed conscience come back to haunt him, constantly reminding him of his so-called faults, of which there were few. She sat there, behind him, silent, like a nagging responsibility.

Swiftly, he spun round, pointing his gun at Sparrow's stomach.

"That - beneath you - it's a Cullis Gate is it not?" he posed, still not looking her in the eyes.

"Yes." she replied plainly, glancing quickly at the circular smooth slabs of stone beneath her. "But it's dead, like everything here."

"But you can revive it, can't you?" he pressed, seemingly more comfortable giving orders than testing his own theory "That's about the only useful thing you Will-users can do."

"I can't, I barely know how-" she insisted, (a small pang of shame sat in her stomach, lamenting her poor will-using abilities).

"Then start studying!-" he interrupted, with concealed desperation.

"Stop avoiding the truth." she told him in a raised yet emotionless voice. "You know what you have to do to escape this world, and be free of your past."

Her words took their time to settle between the two heroes; but as they fell to the floor, their weight weighed heavily on the atmosphere, as disdain began to mould Reaver's features.

"You sanctimonious wench." he growled, as he regarded her with an acid glare. "How dare you tell me what I must and mustn't do? Do you even know who I am; who you are dealing with?"

"No." she answered abruptly, almost confidently. "But I know what you've done, and I know how to get you out of here."

With those words, Sparrow extended her hand up to him, from which he recoiled.

"I'm offering to help you. Do you really think you can fight this curse without me?" she said with an impishly childish smile, that looked all too out of place spread across her lips. He was frightened of the world through the archway; she could feel it.

He looked back at her, odd and dishevelled, with her legs spread out over the Cullis Gate. In all honesty, Reaver thought her to be unsettling, in the most unpleasant of ways. The kind of uncomfortable creepiness that made his very bone marrow squirm. However, beyond the archway behind him, was a vengeful little world that would most likely want to torture and kill him. Internally, he cursed the wayward little wench before him. Were it not for her, his life would still be following its perfect course. It was moments like this, which made Reaver so sorely wish he had shot Sparrow upon first sighting her. He could shoot her now - nothing could stop him - but that would not exactly help the situation.

Oh, decisions, decisions…

"Fine." he said reluctantly after the longest of pauses. He took her hand in his and hauled her up from the floor, an ill-suiting smile still playing on her lips.

"However," he murmured lowly, still gripping her hand as he drew her downwards, leaning in so close she could feel his uncomfortably hot breath on her face. "When I am free of this cursed land, _I will kill you._"

As his gold-flecked hazel eyes bore threateningly into her, she made no effort to pull away:

"I don't doubt you'll try." she whispered coyly, beaming falsely up at him.

Grasped in the inky black gaze of Sparrow, Reaver allowed her to shake her arm free; out of sheer awkwardness. The pair of them looked forwards at the bone white world that awaited them down the tiny grass rimmed path.

Beyond the archway was a land devoid of time, colour and sound. No rainfall, scorching sun, nor weaving wind through the silent crop fields. Empty skies and buildings, patiently lying in wait. Pure silence and stillness; a nothingness.

Some may have called it Hell.

At its gate stood two heroes. One carried a great emptiness and longing in her heart, and within her brain a deep regret was woven. The other shared in the town's curse. He had brought it into being out of sheer fear and selfishness. It was not a great Will-user who had created this world, but a man of unfathomable skill.

With fear sewing their every thought, they stepped through the archway.

* * *

**A/N**** Okay, I know this is a very short chapter. This chapter and the next were going to be one, but the more I thought about it the more the two halves felt like different chapters altogether. **

**To be honest I was quite overwhelmed by the lovely response I've received for this story (yeah, yeah, ten reviews and I'm overwhelmed -_-). Thank you so much for reviewing and subscribing to it ^_^ The next chapter will be called "Bad Jokes," and a proper chapter length, I promise you.**

**Thanks for reading ~!**


	3. Bad Jokes

_**|Snow and Stones**_

**|Chapter 3**

**|Bad Jokes**

Long shafts of colourless light seeped through the branches of the trees and glided across the dusty ground. Reaver's eyes picked through his surroundings, scrupulously searching for something that could disprove Sparrow's derideable theory; but he found nothing. In the close distance, he could see the false Oakvale. This could not be his hometown. He had watched it - with his own eyes, which should have rotted long ago - as it was set alight with hellish coloured flames. Clouds of lung stinging smoke had risen in unnaturally straight currents, up toward the stars and moon, obscuring the town's natural light. Its houses had been swallowed and burnt to cinders, collapsing into heaps of ash, like mere logs in a home fireplace.

Yet here they stood before him, in a rest-like calm, strong and unfazed; with an almost mocking presence that felt as if they were belittling him. Now, most unwillingly, he had returned to lift the curse. Oh, the martyrdom that clouded his brain was almost inescapable.

This was helped little by Sparrow's conversational skills. She had none. Did she have nothing to speak about? Surely, with all her years of travelling, there must be at least one untold story teetering on the tip of her tongue. Even if there was such a tale to be told, her lips remained securely buttoned. He was a social creature and thrived upon intelligent conversation; without it, he felt deprived, like a beautiful and blooming floral display locked in a dank dark room. Did she not understand this? Was she intently abstaining from the art of conversation, for that very reason?

As they walked side by side along the chalky path, their eyes did not meet once. Sparrow scrutinised the town and its houses from a short distance. There had to be a clue, something that would set their task in motion. She sought for anything different, something out of place: A person? A shadow? An opening? Anything!-

"So…" began Reaver breaking her loose concentration "How do you intend on lifting this daft curse?"

Sparrow shot him a hostile look, but he remained very much indifferent. His self-obsession was almost like a glowing visible aura.

"Theoretically," she began with a listless reluctant tone. "If we help the trapped souls to pass over, then the curse should be lifted and the Cullis Gate reactivated."

"And how exactly are we going to do that?" he asked brusquely, clearly doubting Sparrow's grasp of the situation. "That austere little village looks to be empty, not to mention darkly hallowed. Unwelcoming in the extreme. Tell me, did it ever even occur to you that this may be a trap?-"

"Of course it did." she snapped back at him, her voice restrained, "The only way I can think of freeing these spirits is by appeasing them-"

Reaver scoffed, his expression as if he had just proved an obvious point. Regardless, Sparrow continued, her voice more authoritative: "We have to walk into their traps, be the fool of their tricks and play their games. That's the only way out of here."

"How simple." he replied with a smug smile. "I am rather skilled at cheating games and spinning my own tricks," Reaver began, the weight of Sparrow's words seemingly lost on him, as a self-complimenting pride curved his lips and shaped his words. "And as for traps, I command them with a certain mastery, I'm sure that…"

He fell silent as he saw that Sparrow's eyes had drifted most purposefully over his shoulder. Her breathing seemed to cease when she was fixated upon something, as if concentration somehow paralysed her. Reaver's gaze curiously followed her line of vision.

Behind him lay a sloping path that led to a small cottage. It looked comfortably quaint, ordinary, with its dainty candle lamps, and thick thatched roof. However, the door was the most striking of blues. It upheld a rather unusual presence. The blue was not paint. The blue was the door, and the door was the blue.

The two heroes rushed - almost skipped - towards the cottage, stopping inches away from the door.

"Our first clue is in here." whispered Sparrow, her hands floated millimetres above the wood of the door as a deep fascination laced her words. "It has to be."

"… Right." replied Reaver as he took a supercilious step back. Sparrow seemed to be showing an unhealthy enthusiasm, as she seemed to be restraining herself from pressing her whole form against the door and drooling like a cat on heat. Very weird. Very odd. Sparrow took no notice of him, her eyes were unsettlingly wide.

Without a word, Reaver manoeuvred round her to open the door. As he turned the handle, it made the stomach dropping clunk of a locked door mechanism.

"It would be more courteous to knock." suggested Sparrow in a slightly reprimanding tone.

"Knock? ! They're dead my dear." Reaver retorted incredulously. "The dead care little for courtesy. Have you ever observed a Hollow Man closely? They've neither hands for knocking nor tongue for apologizing."

"Hollow Men don't live here." she murmured tonelessly, still gazing at the door.

"Oh really? Have you visited the sunny town of Wraithmarsh recently?" he asked curtly; earning him the quickest of glares as Sparrow knocked on the unnaturally blue door.

The knock echoed out to nothing. Nothing happened.

"We have to find a key…" she sighed, her enthusiasm swiftly depleting.

"Nonsense, step aside mademoiselle." he ordered her, as he procured an ivory handled buttonhook from one of the many layers of his lavish garments.

The only movement Sparrow made was to raise her eyebrow sceptically. What was he to do with a buttonhook?

"You are forgetting, my dear Sparrow, that you are in the company of the king of thefts." he announced proudly, pushing his chest forward like a robin. "I am the commander of all locks. Charming them into submission is a natural talent of mine, like the Indian and Auroran snake charmers. I am more than capable of persuading _anything _to open."

Unimpressed, Sparrow shrugged and moved away. Reaver crouched down in front of the lock, as eloquent as if her were about to propose to the door. Concentration riddled his handsome features as he attempted to coax the door to open, fishing the buttonhook around in the large gaping keyhole. Sparrow watched him shamelessly. Her mind reeled as to why Reaver would have such a feminine buttonhook. There where plenty of objects that could pick locks as well - if not better - than a buttonhook. He must use it for something else, perhaps dressing. The only clothes one needs a buttonhook to wear are woman's boots and corsets. It would not be out of his character to dress in women's clothes, or even women's underwear… And with that, Sparrow's mind was presented with a most alluring image, which she would not be sharing any time soon.

After several long moments of fruitless lock picking Reaver gave a frustrated grunt.

"This is unbelievable." he complained, as if the lock had insulted him. "Every time I think I'm making a little progress, the damn mechanism shifts back into place."

"It's most likely enchanted, like the door." Sparrow suggested, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"What foul play-!" he tutted, slightly put out that his practised skills would be of no use to him.

"Successfully picking the lock would have been foul play." she said airily. "We'll have to search the town for the matching key."

"You make it sound like such a simple task." commented Reaver, as if complementing her, before tossing a dissatisfied scowl to the ground.

Once again ignoring him, Sparrow began to sprint towards the ghostly little town, with Reaver hot on her heals. She had not run with anyone in the longest time; not since her dog was so unnecessarily killed - shot stone cold. Only now did she realise how much she had missed the company of others. Sparrow watched him running - ever so slightly ahead of her - like a tin clockwork toy. He moved in the most peculiar fashions, as his legs moved mechanically and his torso remained set in the most regal of postures. It was odd - oddly graceful, almost like a deer or dancer.

How lonely must she be, to be glad of Reaver's company? To seek and find merit in him? This despicable ponce of a man was most likely plotting her murder as she watched him, and she was enjoying his company. How lonely must she be? This was mad. As soon as she had lifted this curse, she would have find a new mutt - and a way of making it bullet-proof.

A wide stone bridge awaited the two heroes, beneath which was a dry river of monochrome weeds and grass. On the left side of the bridge was a wooden windmill, slowly turning its panels in the breezeless air. Just across the bridge stood two tall and ancient oak trees, one shorter than the other, their once golden bark greyed with the effect of the curse. Their branches reached up to the sky, as if trying to catch and clutch onto the cotton clouds above them.

Sparrow's eyes were instantly drawn to the strikingly colourful drawings on the ground. Spreading like roots from the base of the grater tree pale pink, blue and yellow chalk drawings covered the ground and encroached toward the bridge. They were unusual to say the least. They depicted magical diagrams of the Old Religion, incredibly intricate and dauntingly complicated. They resembled a strong likeness to star maps, as every drawing seemed to link to another, annotated in the oldest of languages. However, they were not carefully crafted or expertly drawn. The lines were wobbled and were by no means exact; more so they were primitive. Almost as if a child had drawn them.

Her mind and body froze. Sparrow had forgotten about the children. How many children had been sucked dry of their youth when the shadows descended on this town? How many trembled as their stomachs hollowed with fear? How many had cried out, screaming? Had Reaver distinguished _their_ screams from the masses, or just that one girl's mentioned in his diary?

"My, my, this _is_ curios." remarked Reaver as he observed the drawings, before turning to Sparrow. "Do you know what they are? They seem familiar to me."

She looked up, her eyes and brain still swimming with her thoughts. There was another silence as she prepared her answer.

"They're diagrams of the Old Religion." she explained in a near sleepy voice. "But… I don't understand them. I never did study the dark side of the old magics. These could be early Shadow Cult illustrations for all I know."

"They're rather crudely drawn to be-" began Reaver casually before Sparrow cut in.

"They've been draw by children." she said abruptly.

"Poppycock," he smiled dismissively. "Children could never have drawn these. You said so yourself, they are diagrams of the Old Religion; exceedingly complicated and dark. Not even Garth dabbles in this sort of experimentation, let alone children."

"How do you know?" she snapped, sick of his constant condescending attitude towards her theories. "There were children in this village the night you desecrated it, weren't there? Who knows what their spirits have been doing?" she added darkly.

"How sanctimonious of you to mourn over the children." Reaver spat back at her. "Not the elderly, not the young adults, but the children. Why must society place more importance - more value, upon the souls of children?"

"Because they are innocent-," she retorted exasperatedly.

"Innocent?" he scoffed "No child - no human - is innocent. Children are the most selfish and cruel of all species. They are beasts. Why do you suppose so many peasants believe that Hobbes are cursed children?"

Sparrow took a moment's pause of quick contemplation.

"Because people pity Hobbes and their lack of understanding." she replied calmly, successfully exhaling her anger and frustration.

"However you wish to see it…" he sighed, as if giving up on an unreasonably stubborn person, before asking airily "Do you think this could be a clue as to where that blasted key is hidden?"

"Yes." she replied emptily.

Sparrow walked slowly over and around the drawings, scrutinising them in deep concentration. She had never allowed herself to study the dark magics. Simply because they were evil, and she saw no problem with that. If she were not scornful of their evilness, then she would surely use them. Sparrow had attempted for so long to make herself hate evil, to make her heart and soul truly averse to it - but she could not. No matter how she tried, she could not make herself opposed to what she knew to be wrong. Consequently, Sparrow would not allow herself to help the Temple of Shadows; would not allow her eyes to look upon dark scriptures, or let her mind to gain a grasp of them, nor her hands or tongue to be practised in them. Subconsciously, she would like to believe that she was practising flawless self-control; however, she knew that this was not he case. If you cut off a potential murderer's hands, he will still wish to kill; he will simply be inept to do so.

With a bored expression, Reaver walked over to the trees. All his energies and all his efforts were going into repressing the overwhelming sense of nostalgia he felt deep within the pits of his heart. He could not - would not - indulge it, no matter how strong it was. Gingerly, he stroked the bark of the tree. Nothing had changed there. Like a portrait, it had remained, as it was when he had left it, frozen and unageing. Perhaps it was because he too had remained - in appearance - as he had been when he left this place, frozen and unageing.

A clunk rattled his thoughts as his foot knocked against something at the bottom on the tree. Looking downwards, he saw a worn, damp looking wooden toolbox. Kneeling down, he flipped the rickety, lose lid open to reveal the box's contents. Many broken sticks of dull coloured chalk, thick and thin, filled the box making its edges moist and dusty. Disappointed, Reaver tipped the chalk out onto the ground, causing an almost jingle-like noise as they fell.

Sparrow's eyes broke from the drawings, as she heard the chalks snapping as they hit the ground.

"What've you found?" she asked, none too politely.

Reaver did not answer her, but searched through the chalks. As he brushed them aside, Sparrow could not help noticing how elegantly he moved his hands, as smooth and soft as calm ocean waves. A smile curved his lips before he plucked a brilliant and unnaturally blue key from the pile of chalk.

* * *

The key was large and heavy, much like the lock on the door; a perfect match. Reaver grasped it in his hand as he and Sparrow wordlessly made their way back to the house on the outskirts of town. He felt that he had obtained a certain petty victory by finding the key before Sparrow had. Childish - yes, he knew, but still there was a satisfaction to be gained in besting the pallid little wench, who seemed to think herself so pure and so knowledgeable. She walked behind him, her mouth seemingly stitched, and the trim of her long coat growing white and dusty as it dragged a little across the ground.

Suddenly, the silence was broken. A knocking, so loud it could only be described as a banging reverberated through the empty air. Twice. Four times. Five times. Silence.

The sound seemed to have surrounded them, as if they had been sealed inside a drum. It had been so powerful; one may have even called it godly. The two heroes faced each other, only to mirror their bewilderment. They held in their questions and stood as still as stagnant water, waiting for the noise to sound again. After moments of nothing, Reaver spoke:

"What in heaven's name was that?" he asked, a frustrated edge to his voice.

"I don't know." she replied, concern deepening her features. "Maybe we shouldn't 've taken the key from its box…"

"Nonsense; what else were we to do?" he answered her, certainty growing in his voice. "Through that damned door is the way forward - presumably the way they want us to go - and this key is the way in."

Sparrow did not argue with him. She only caught his eyes and continued walking. Reaver followed suit, yet again cursing her abstinence from conversation.

As they walked further up the white path, the banging sounded again, louder. So much louder, it boomed though the air, twice, four times, five times. Sparrow stopped once more with apprehension setting fast in her stomach. The fear ricocheted in her bones, nearly causing her to shake. Why was she afraid so? Reaver turned round, impatient:

"You do know they're only-" he began briskly.

"Yes I know they're only doing this to scare me." she interrupted though gritted teeth.

"Do you still wish to save them, oh Saint Sparrow? Or has the severity of your meddling finally dawned upon you?" asked Reaver with a self-satisfied smile; which he held even as Sparrow murderously glowered at him as she overtook his pace. Having the last word was never as fun with anyone else other than Sparrow.

As they approached the blue-doored house, the foreboding and booming knocking sounded again - even more thunderous than before - but neither of them paid it too much attention. Reaver slid the key in to the lock and turned it. It fit snugly. The most pleasing sound of tuning gears and the click of an unlocked mechanism sounded inside the door. With little caution, Reaver opened the door, his hand ready on his pistol and Sparrow quickly following him.

After charging in with elaborate enthusiasm, what awaited them inside was both unthreatening and disappointing. An empty house. As colourless as the rest of this world, the ground floor of the house was spaciously open plan and set out into two rooms. The front room depicted whitewashed walls and wooden beams. As quaint as the exterior of the house, the room was furnished with classic country furniture: woven rungs, a grandfather clock, a rickety table, and selves of empty bottles lined the walls. In the kitchen resided a tall clay oven that seemed to curve with the rooms wooden panelled walls. Shafts of hollow, heat-empty light shone through small round windows and onto more dreary cupboards and tables.

The two heroes sighed and put away their weapons. Sparrow sat on the table and began to think. What were they to do in such an ordinary room, and why had it been locked?

"Who lived here?" she asked Reaver.

"Does it really matter?" he replied, disinterest misting his eyes.

"I wouldn't be asking if it didn't." she prompted him. "Who lived here?"

"An old man, I don't recall his name." he said briefly, as if brushing the query off. However, a prolonged stare coaxed him to elaborate. "He was kind, the sort of over-welcoming kindness that makes a man uncomfortable. His skin was too tanned to have lived here all his life, and his hair was poofy and white, like sheep's wool…"

"Anything else?" she pressed him, her gaze fixed and unblinking, set on his lips. As much as she hated him, Sparrow did like to watch his lips as he talked - and felt no shame in doing so.

"Yes, he was an insect collector." he elaborated, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. His eyes were concentrated, as if he were following a trail or tracing a line. "Such pathetic people have always unnerved me. They preach about the beauty of vile little insects, with their glistening skin and inordinate number of legs and eyes - and then they kill them! They tempt the minute monsters with sugar water and then trap them beneath glass bell jars, grinning as they slowly watch the insect suffocate and die, before framing its grotesque corpse upon the wall. It's sick to take such joy in murdering the things you love, isn't it?"

"Did you know him well?" Sparrow asked patently. There had to be some useful information in this man's head.

"No, he was creepy." he replied simply, his mouth sneering slightly with disgust.

Before Sparrow could press him any further information the knocking sounded again. Twice, four times, five times. So much louder this time, Sparrow felt as if her skull would burst from trying to contain the noise. Both heroes clasped their hands over their ears as the booming dyed away, leaving their ears buzzing.

Without knowing why, both snapped their gaze towards a cabinet in the kitchen. Like the toolbox over the bridge, it was crudely carved, and its latch looked teasingly easy to open.

"Do you think the noise is coming from inside… that?" Sparrow asked cautiously.

"Absolutely." Reaver replied with utter certainty.

"What did the old man keep in there?" she enquired whilst moving steadily closer, like a fox moving in on it pray.

"His taxidermy collection." he replied with an unnecessary hatred in his voice as he cocked his pistol.

Gradually, the heroes crept towards the cabinet, as if sneaking past a dangerous but slumbering creature. When they had drawn close enough, Reaver looked to Sparrow, who then gave a jerky nod. Slowly, he extended his hand and touched upon the latch of the cabinet. A knock sounded; a quiet and almost polite knock, in the same sequence as the previous rhythm. Feeling more at ease, Reaver slickly flipped the latch open and knocked the doors aside in one simple gesture.

Movement. Colour. They saw blue movement. Quicker than a sprung mousetrap, they aimed their pistols in on the cabinet, panic flashing like a shooting star in their eyes. Only when their tenseness had subsided could they see the situation clearly.

Within the shadowy cupboard was a strikingly electric blue butterfly. It was large, at least too large to cage in a child's fingers. Elegantly, it bobbed about the otherwise bare shelves as if dithering. Its shoulders were fluffy as a chicken's backside and its wings, though wide and quick, looked to be as delicate as blotting paper.

"A… butterfly?" creaked Sparrow vexedly. They had gone to the trouble of finding a key and enduring unearthly and painful noise, for the sake of a butterfly.

"It certainly is, unexpected." commented Reaver, unable to think of anything else to say.

Erratically, it flapped about in an almost stressed manner, until it glided from the confines of the cupboard and over the shoulders of the two battle weary but bemused heroes.

"We should follow it." said Sparrow, her voice not nearly as certain as she would have liked it to be.

"My thoughts exactly." he concurred, "It may be another clue."

Then, as if it had been waiting for Reaver's words as a queue, the butterfly took flight out of the open door, out into the dead world, with the two humans following it in blind faith and obedience.

* * *

**A/N**** My apologies for the long wait, I feel really guilty, and if you are reading this, I sincerely thank you for your patience. I am grateful to all those who review, subscribe or simply read this. Thank you so much, I really hope you enjoyed it.**

**Yet again, I am sorry if you noticed any grammar or spelling mistakes, I know they can really annoy people. The next chapter will be called "Children," and I am much looking forward to writing it (I really am ^_^). Thanks again~!**

**[For those that are interested, electric blue butterflies are seen and depicted as deceptive but beautiful female demons in old Jewish folklore, usually used to lure children or naive young men and women; and magical smoke is said to rise in straight lines.]**


	4. Children

**_|Snow and Stones_**

**_|Chapter 4_**

**_|Children _**

Contrary to popular opinion, butterflies are rather slow creatures - at least when it comes to getting to a specific destination. Navigation is not the easiest skill to master when you have wings twice the size of your body, and eyes that see far too many angles for a brain the size of a grain of rice to process and comprehend. However, empathy and understanding for insects is not a skill practised by many a hero either. It had taken what seemed like an age for the dithering little insect to reach the bridge. It never travelled in a straight, or even decisive line. Constantly flitting about as if it were dodging the flying paws of an invisible cat.

"This has to be some kind of jape." Reaver complained exasperatedly. "That brainless little …_thing _has stopped on god knows how many flowers already." Oh, how he longed to shoot the blasted little thing!

The ocean blue butterfly had settled upon yet another pale paper-like flower. Patient and seemingly unfazed, Sparrow watched the insect slowly flex its wings with an eye of intrigue.

"Is there even any nectar in these lifeless flowers?" he frowned, annoyed. It made no sense.

She was curios now. Taking his question quite literally, Sparrow crouched down among a cluster of flowers by the butterfly and did something rather strange. Reaver had to angle himself to see what she was doing; as she stuck her tongue deep into one of the flowers and licked its centre wet, like a thirsty dog. Abruptly, she sprung back up into a standing position, quickly wiping her mouth as she did so - like a child who'd been caught doing something she oughtn't:

"No."

"_No_ what?" he asked - almost whimpered. What the hell was she up to? What kind of mind game was this?

"No nectar." she replied simply.

There was an elongated pause. Sparrow gazed blankly at Reaver, as a charmed smile tugged at his lips, his brow slipping into a queer expression:

"You mad strumpet." he chuckled; before the butterfly rose up in the wind-empty air to flutter over the bridge, with the purposefulness of a dizzied man. Discarding their flimsy conversation, they followed it towards the glowing crop fields.

The heroes' features creased as a blinding white light flipped over the horizon, though there was no sun to shine it. Again, they crossed the bridge and ran northwards, passing the two oak trees. Subconsciously, Sparrow's eyes were momentarily caught on the children's' drawings. Their shaky pastel coloured lines imprinted on her vision, and flashed violently at her when she blinked. She still hadn't figured them out yet, and it was irritating her no end. If only Garth were with them, he would surely be able to identify and understand them.

The butterfly flitted into the wheat fields, keeping to the smooth stone path like a human. The crop fields had a particular lunar glow about them, as each waist-high stem swayed almost sorrowfully in the breezeless air, as if it were lamenting the absence of the villagers. To Sparrow, the air felt as if it were filled with the loneliness of dozens, upon dozens of souls, as she felt her heart soften with empathy. The heroes slowed their pace as they reached the fields. From within the ghostly grass was the perfect place for an ambush. The crops were so densely packed, almost anything could lurk unseen within them, like murky swamp waters. Only then did Sparrow curse her haste in which she had entered this world - she so longed to be clutching her mace - which, in her rush, she had abandoned back in Bloodstone. It sat, painted in her mind, rusted and propped up against the tiled fireplace of Reaver's manor, loitering idly.

The butterfly's speed increased as it approached the gates at the far end of the path. The gates were tall and black, but they were not imposing. Their iron bars were crafted with elegant and decorative swirls, as the top of the gates were curved in a welcoming arch shape stretching toward the heavens. However, it seemed that it was not the gates that attracted the insect, but the child behind them. A boy, perhaps of just over ten years of age, stood with his slim arms outstretched through the bars. His tight-skinned hands spread out, as if frozen in the midst of a clapping motion, ready to catch the bug.

With tattered, coarse looking clothes, and hair as unkempt as an elderly chicken's feathers, he seemed to fit this world's quaint country setting. However, he did not exactly fit into his setting. He had colour to him. If a storyteller were to romanticise the scene, they would say that the boy was like a ray of sunshine in the desolate, dead landscape; though, this was not the case. He appeared to the heroes as more of a stain on the perfectly clean and white world; deep, stubborn and unmissable. As the butterfly approached him, his expression was not one of gleeful anticipation, but of boredom, as if he had been assigned a chore. His listless hazel-grey eyes took no notice of Sparrow or Reaver - they only gazed down at the pathway as he stood in wait.

Both heroes stopped and observed him.

"A child…" whispered Sparrow cautiously "He must've been the one who drew those diagrams."

"Looks can be deceiving." replied Reaver in the same low whisper, hypersensitive to this world's treachery, as traitors often are "He may not even be a child."

The butterfly was now in reach of the boy. A change came over him, sudden but fluid, like the first ripple on a calm pool's surface. His empty gaze locked onto the insect's body…

_Slap. _

_Squish._

As abrupt as a Venus flytrap snaps its leafy jaws, the child had clapped his hands on the butterfly, before slowly grinding his palms together and crushing the insect into a meritless pulp. Silence sank deep into the atmosphere. Sparrow blinked at the boy, dumfounded. Thoughts of injustice and frustration lit her mind, only as bright as yearly mourning cinders. They had gone through some trouble to fetch that dammed butterfly, only for it to be crushed. Then again, there was a good chance it knew its fate. What was it to her anyway?: A means to an end, another small link in a long, long chain. The heroes shared a glance. It was plain to the both of them that they would have to persuade the child to grant them passage through the gates.

"I do so love children." sighed Reaver sarcastically, as if to say to Sparrow: _"You deal with this." _Ignoring him, Sparrow approached the boy:

"Gatekeeper," she addressed him. As a child, she had always loathed being called "girl" or "kid" by strangers. "Would you let us though?"

The boy looked up at her as he wiped the deceased insect onto his cause, shabby clothes. He said nothing.

"I… We're here to help you." Sparrow tried again; while in the background Reaver snorted at her use of the word _"we". _"What's your name?" she coaxed him again.

There was another silence. Her patience endured.

"You're from here, aren't you." replied the boy at long last. His voice was small, but adultly apathetic, rolling on his tongue with an inoffensive imperfection, like small bumps in the road.

There was an awkward silence. Sparrow looked to Reaver, assuming the child was addressing him, and gave him a sharp look as if to say he was being rude for not answering.

"I meant you…" muttered the boy, sounding almost fed up.

"No. I've never been here." Sparrow replied bluntly.

"You have relatives in the graveyard, even if you weren't born here." said the boy with no politeness in his voice, as he gripped the bars and looked up at Sparrow. His voice was mature, far too mature to be coming from his infantile mouth. His eyes were hard and cold. "Isn't that why you're here, out of loyalty to them?"

"How would you know that?" Sparrow asked, now with an undercurrent of distrust in her voice.

"We knew that you'd be coming." explained the child matter-of-factly. "And we knew you'd be bringing _him_ back with you."

"Who's _we_?" asked Reaver, a snarl twitching at his cheekbones.

The boy glared up at him. A jealous glare that Sparrow had only seen on the face of adults: "Surely you must remember some of us. You must at least remember _her_. She's anticipated your return for so long now…"

"You won't speak her name?" Reaver questioned the boy. Though he was wearing an expression fit to intimidate any man, Sparrow could see the fear beneath it. As the silence thickened around them, she could almost see his defences building stronger around him. He was afraid of the unspoken name. _Her_ name.

The child shook his head: "I am under her orders not to open these gates until you say her name."

"Like a password?" Sparrow confirmed. The child nodded.

Reaver squeezed the butt of his gun and inhaled slowly through his nose, venting out hot anger, before he growled, lower than a rumble of thunder: "Don't be petulant boy; open this gate."

Sparrow said nothing, she daren't breathe; but she stared fixedly at him, powerless. The child eyed Reaver's pistol and stepped away from the gates, his features wrinkled as if from disapproval.

"What are you going to do with that?" asked the child with no emotion except for confidence. "What use is a gun on those you have already killed?"

Frustration boiled Reaver's blood, rising like a heat wave, as his gaze met with they child's. A boy had trapped him. A boy had cornered him like some whining, common, street rat. He had not spoken her name in over a century. He had not even allowed himself to think it. And now he was to be forced to say it by a child. Oh, how he wished to crush the cocky little pipsqueak, just as he had disposed of the butterfly.

Sparrow had now decided that she did not like watching Reaver squirm. She thought she would have relished the sight of the mighty and arrogant Reaver being debased and threatened, but she did not. It was thoroughly unpleasant - like watching a worm writhe, skewered on a fishing hook - it caused a lump of disgust and pity to rise uncomfortably in her throat, and try as she might, she could not force down.

"Whisper it if you must." she grunted, refusing to look at him as her voice filled with impatience. "Just get it over with, this is pathetic."

With her words, Reaver's tenseness seemed to melt away from his expression, to reveal a teasing smile on his face;

"My dear Sparrow, could this be jealousy fuelling your scorn?" he chuckled.

"What?" she snarled back at him, masking her utter surprise at his sudden change in tone.

"Now, now, there's no shame in it." he continued, puffing his chest forward and flicking his hair from his face. "Many a woman - and in fact, many a man - have been sparked into a jealous feud over _moi. _It's perfectly natural that you should envy any maiden who has been blessed by my courtship-"

"Envy?" Sparrow spat incredulously back at him. "Those poor women are welcome to you, and you to them."

"Come now, there's no need to shun your natural desires so r-"

"The only desire I have concerning you," interrupted Sparrow though gritted teeth. She was containing herself. She would not allow herself to get angry over his comments. This was such a small thing; not worthy of her fury. "Is to be the one who cuts you, and your steal mask of an ego down to size."

"Aw, I'm hurt." he pouted arrogantly, as he laughed internally at his own joke.

"Just give him the password." she ordered him airily, yet again not allowing herself to look at him.

Pride warmed Reaver's heart at how easily he could irk Sparrow. He felt empowered, like a cat with its claws hooked deeply in a struggling rodent's skin. However, Sparrow was no mouse, and so - for now - he would follow her orders. Flashing her a coy, knowing smile, Reaver knelt down and whispered the password to the boy, who defensively twitched back, as if Reaver's words had stung him.

Hatred narrowed the child's eyes as he unlocked the gate. A slim, warn rope was strung around the boy's neck, from which hung a plethora of mismatched keys, one of which matched the gate. They hung together in a tangled clump, looking strenuously heavy around his neck. Sparrow could picture the terrible sores that would loop around his neck because of their weight; hot blotchy marks, sticky to the touch. Though, if the boy had any injuries, he had hidden them well. It was likely that he had every key in town dangling heavily over his heart. Perhaps, he had placed the blue key in the chalk box for them to find…

As the three of them made their way up the path toward the carriage bay, Reaver looked about the world with an unimpressed look of boredom, and the slightest flicker of disgust. This was the place he had been expected to spend the remainder of his pitiful life? With some buxom, red-cheeked mare and a mundane little job? He could picture himself - all too clearly - chopping wood through the seasons, and loving his common country brats unconditionally, until the dark cloak of night crept in - then all that would be on his mind would be a dull, unadventurous fumble with his beloved. The mundane creak of bedsprings causing a tremor throughout his dim, claustrophobic, four walled home. How quickly his life would have ended, almost mercifully. The disease of age would end him. His hair would grow grey, and his bones would begin to creak. It sickened him, the life he had been "assigned" to. Had he remained here, he would have amounted to little more than an un-extraordinary gravestone, in a crowd of so many more like it.

The very thought of it made him come over in a trickle cold sweat. Nevertheless, he had avoided that fate. He had cheated his destiny.

In front of him, Sparrow attempted to speak with the child again, in the most pleasant of tones - much like her smile, it did not befit of her:

"I was wrong…" she began.

"Wrong about what?" asked the boy, eyeing her warily.

"You're not the gatekeeper." she replied briefly, as pleasantly as she could. "You're the key-keeper."

"Don't call me that." he said, his voice as dull as a tired old man's. "You make me sound like a jail warden."

"What else was I to call you if you won't tell me your name?" Sparrow's civil tone slipped away from her voice, if not for only a second. Sparrow could not remember the last time she had had to hold the company of a child.

The slightest shadow of remorse dented the boy's brow, only for a moment.

"For a second…" he began his voice less hostile now. "I thought you meant that you were wrong about _him_." said the boy, as he tilted his head towards an oblivious Reaver who was checking his fingernails for imperfections.

"What do you mean?" replied Sparrow, again with suspicion.

"You see good in him…" elaborated the boy. "You don't think he is entirely evil."

Sparrow looked back at him. His pace had slowed significantly since he had procured a small hand mirror, within which, he was studying his eyebrows with unwavering concentration and intensity. She had known evil - she had seen it, as she had fled the afterlife to be resurrected, and in Lucien's eyes, as he emptied his pistol's burning bullets into her chest. Sparrow had seen incomprehensible selfishness, and even spite in Reaver, but not evil. He was too fearful of death - too weak at the knowledge of its prospect - to be considered evil in her eyes.

"No." she replied softly. "I can't believe that he's evil…"

As the words left her mouth, Sparrow realised how trusting she sounded. Trusting, of Reaver? ! What had happened to her?

"That is an insult." replied the child, affronted, his eyes growing cold as cemetery stone "Look at what he's done to us. If this is not evil… if there are crueller acts than this, then I can't imagine the world you live in."

Sparrow was about to open her mouth and protest that Reaver did not know that the souls would be trapped, and how he didn't know how the people of his village would suffer. But, he would have known that they would die, and he would have understood that that would have entailed a great deal of suffering. He was not stupid, but his underlined selfishness and fear would have rendered him ignorant. His horrific nightmares that haunted him and corrupted his slumber into torture would not be penance enough for the deeds he had done. Besides, she wasn't about to defend Reaver. She was - after all - the one who had dragged him back to this cursed land to face his demons.

"Who is _us_?" she asked. "Is the whole town still here?"

Not looking at Sparrow, the boy paused, and twisted one of the keys between his fingers:

"Not everyone…" he spoke quietly, as if he were repressing himself from showing emotion. "Only those she chose to follow her down the well were spared."

"Who did you follow?" asked Sparrow with less courtesy than she could have used. She did not like the fact that she was the only one within their company who did not know the name of this mysterious woman.

"I don't say her name, as a mark of respect." replied the boy plainly

"Then how do you address her?" enquired Sparrow with an irked tone.

"As Madame, how else would I address her?" the boy cocked an eyebrow before Sparrow gave a tut and severed herself from the conversation.

How this woman had the power to shield a handful of people from the shadows perplexed Sparrow. She could not have been an ordinary country girl. There was a chance, she may have been a Will-user, and a strong one at that. Sparrow had battled the shadows before; they were quick, too fast for any eye to follow, and thin as smoke. If someone were to be cornered by them, they were but walking - cowering - shadow meat. They could rip the bravest worrier to ribbons without a second thought. They could only communicate through backward screeches, which made the most irate cries of the night bats sound tuneful. There was no reasoning with them. They had no hearts to feel pity. Not even Reaver's silver tongue could manipulate there minds, or weave their paths in the way he wished.

This woman had to be _her. _The girl Reaver spoke of in his diary, and whose name was whispered as the password. Sparrow did not know Reaver's "type." It seemed to be anyone who was remotely desirable, which was the majority of people with whom he associated. However, none of them - no matter how rich, beautiful or talented - had managed to impact upon Reaver as this woman had.

Suddenly, it hit her, catching her off-guard like unexpected blow to the stomach.

It was so obvious; Sparrow could not believe her denseness. The only thing Reaver truly desired - truly obsessed over - was power. As her thoughts grew deeper and deeper, Sparrow began to understand why he was the way he was, and why he acted the way he did. He was so afraid of death because he was powerless before it. The night of the Spire and Lucien's death, Sparrow had returned from the dead unharmed, having not participated in any foul play whatsoever. She was the weapon the three heroes had created. What power and chaos she had displayed that night… She had a greater power than Reaver himself, and he hungered after it. He was transfixed upon her power, like a starving hound upon a fresh, bloody slab of meat, tantalisingly dangling before his eager twitching snout, its scent ensnaring him. However, he was not so mindless - he was manipulative and calculating - more like a fox than some common dog.

Now she understood why Reaver had not made to kill her sooner. Now she understood the hunger that glazed over his eyes at the mention of her name.

What had this woman done to earn Reaver's attention? A bitter, childish voice piped up inside Sparrow's mind, as snide and spiteful as the flick of a snakes tongue: _"I bet she wasn't as powerful as you. After all, she has been trapped inside this snowglobe's glass walls for years. You could crush her quicker than she could sight you."_

Ashamed, Sparrow ignored this voice; what else could she do? The cobbled path made a sharp change that led the three of them into the main residential aria of Oakvale. Small, thatched-roof cottages encompassed a large ancient looking oak tree. Its grey leafy branches seemed to stretch out towards the surrounding houses, as if it wished to stroke their roofs, as a doting parent pats the head of a child. It was not hard to picture this place steeped in summer sunshine and merriment. There was no denying it; this small town had been a joyous place to live before Reaver had burnt it to the ground. Sparrow was not without understanding and empathy; she understood perfectly why he had done what he had done. What she did not understand was how he could live with it so calmly, without regret. Had Sparrow lived in this idyllic land, she would have fought tooth and nail to protect it.

At the foot of the tree stood a small kissing well. Before neither Sparrow nor Reaver could say a word, their guide boy spoke up:

"That's not the well." he groaned, as if speaking to dim children. "It's behind this house."

The boy indicated to the nearest house, around which a lightly worn path had been trod down. Sparrow looked about the small grove of houses before turning to Reaver, who's decedent red clothes shone out against his white backdrop like blood flowing through snow:

"Which of these houses was yours?" she asked, her voice was quiet and soft as the summer breeze.

Just as his contemplative gaze met hers, the boy piped up again:

"It doesn't matter, because we're going down the well." he said imperatively as he made his way down the little worn path.

"What makes you so sure of that?" asked Reaver quizzically "You may have attained her trust, _boy, _but you certainly don't have mine."

"You want to get out of here, don't you?" replied the boy sharply, mimicking Reaver's tone.

Reaver's expression soured, as he and Sparrow followed the boy round the back of the cottage. Backed by yet more rocks and a slim silver birch tree was the well. Made from crumbling stones, this well was wider than any well Sparrow had ever seen. It was crudely made, like a pottery apprentice's first attempt at throwing a pot. A great deal of the well's rim had fallen away, and a long thin ladder plunged into the deep darkness.

"Are we going down?" Sparrow asked the boy tonelessly.

"I don't know." replied the boy plainly, "Are you?" With those words, the boy swung his short legs round onto the weak looking ladder.

"I would recommend that you follow me." he added, "The shadows will be coming out soon…"

Before the heroes could question him, the child had scuttled down the ladder, quicker than a frightened beetle, and was swallowed swiftly by the darkness. The heroes looked to one another for a decision.

"Well this looks dark, ominous and dangerous," commented Reaver, with an air of anticipation "It should be, memorable… ladies first."

Sparrow scowled at him, knowing that if she were to come to an unfortunate end before he reached the bottom of the ladder, Reaver would most likely flee the darkness of the well, quick as a cat leaping from water. Begrudgingly, she climbed into the well and made her way down. Before her pearly white face had been obscured by the shadows, Reaver followed her, light and silent as the thief he was. At that moment, Sparrow was faced with the fullest view of Reaver's behind. Her cheeks pinked. Why had he chosen to wear his trousers so tight…?

* * *

It was so dark inside the well, Sparrow was beginning to doubt whether she had opened her eyes. Without having to think, Sparrow conjured a small fist sized flame in the palm of her hand, just in time for Reaver to drop gracefully down to ground level. His cape swooshed at his shoulders, causing the lightest slapping sound to deplete through the still air.

As the orange light flickered upon Sparrow's pallid face surrounded by darkness, she looked menacing, even evil. That was until Reaver saw the look of innocent wonderment in her soft, dark deer-like eyes; eyes he had seen somewhere else, a long time ago.

This was no ordinary well; it was the opening to a complicated network of underground corridors, which ran beneath Oakvale's surface like veins. Dewy white roots hung from the low ceilings, dripping down on the damp uneven floors. The walls were made up of pale gray rock, that looked as if it were melting around them, appearing like cooled frozen magma. The passages were cold, and eerily silent. The sound of Sparrow and Reaver's breathing filled the icy air around her, slow and smooth as thick flowing honey, making her spine tingle uncomfortably. Sparrow cast her eye about, looking for the boy who had led them down to such a dank and gloomy place - but he was nowhere to be seen. They had lost their guide.

"Have you ever been down here?" asked Sparrow, her voice sounding louder than it truly was as it echoed down the hollow passageways.

"I can't say I have," replied Reaver with a blatantly aloof tone. The flame's light flickered on his face, highlighting its shadows. He looked so much older in the dark than he had in the white light of the surface. "It is rather curious though, isn't it? I lived in this dreary little town for years and never once stumbled upon this little hidey-hole. For someone of my brilliant skill, it's rather embarrassing…," he added, as if his ignorance was something worth laughing heartily about.

"Then we'll have to make our way blindly." sighed Sparrow listlessly, her flame's light swelling and decreasing like a pumping heart.

They took only a few steps before they heard the quickest, daintiest dripping sound. They stopped dead, as the dripping echoed through the corridors and faded out behind them. There was water in this well. The heroes pace quickened as they began to rush through the pathways, heading for the dripping, as the stones beside them began to blur. Sparrow wondered if these stones had memories of water flowing over them, or if they could remember the dancing, quick shifting shadows of the villagers cast upon them, as they fled through these tunnels and away from the flames. The dripping sounded again.

A light sparked up in the dark distance, lighting up the almost yellow-skinned face of their young guide:

"My, you two are slow." he commented, suppressing a smug tone. "I thought skilled heroes where meant to be quick like foxes, but you're more like butterflies…" he said before muttering beneath his breath, as he turned: _"…dumb and dithering." _

"Where _exactly_ are you leading us?" asked Reaver with a raised voice thick with impatience and snobbery. "You may be used to scuttling around this underground maze like gritty blind rodents, but I'm certainly not."

"Who are you to insult us?" asked the boy, his voice sounded hurt, and angered as it quivered, like fine china being beaten by the rain. "You don't even have a name…"

Reaver was about to protest and boast of how his name was finer than any name given by any mother, but Sparrow scowled him into silence, her expression sharper than most sour fruits.

"How can we be sure you even have a name?" she asked, the suspicion in her voice gave way all too easily to the pity she felt in her heart for the nameless child. However, the boy ignored her, and her concern:

"I'm taking you to the heart of Oakvale, to see what has become of the people of this town." he uttered dully, with his back to them. "Maybe then you'll prove yourselves to be more than dithering butterflies."

* * *

**A/N**** Thanks for reading! **

**The next chapters are going to be really difficult to write since they're quite eventful (I still haven't decided whether I'm going to use flashbacks or not.) **

**I took quite a long break from writing this, so my style may have changed and maybe the tone of the story as well. I hope it was a change for the better. The next chapter will be titled "Marbles," which… I've just realised tells you nothing of what's to come. Oh well ^ ^;'' Please tell me what you think ~ ! !**


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